


Appreciation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, Ficlet, M/M, Stripping, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli watches a pleasant surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His preconceived notions weren’t _quite_ true, though there is a disconcerting lack of stone, and if he left his little alcove, he could still see the stars through the trees. Half the reason Gimli stays tucked beneath the roots is that it reminds him of _home_ , a place he still yearns for every day. 

But he has no regrets for leaving. He did the right thing, and there are certain... benefits... to this journey. Things he’s gained that he never might have glimpsed before. The pleasure of watching an elf strip, for example. While the rest of the camp sleeps around them, while Gimli pretends to sleep, Legolas finally rejoins them, walks into the little hideaway that Gimli’s found, and turns his back to what he thinks is a sleeping dwarf. The makeshift ceiling of the tree’s roots stops just below Legolas’ head, and the white glow of the stars, the moon, and all the other odd flowers and gems of elves that seem to shine, cast a pale glow along Legolas’ side. He looks like a being made of pure magic, beautiful beyond comprehension. Gimli doesn’t move a millimeter, because he doesn’t want to break the spell.

Galadriel is beautiful. More so than Gimli could’ve dreamed, and she’s no witch, like the dwarf legends claim. But Legolas rivals even her, and yet Legolas graces Gimli with his presence, stands right at Gimli’s feet, tall and proud and about to be exposed. 

Gimli wants to hold his breath. When he tries, it seems to already be caught in his throat. He could never say any of this aloud, of course: could never admit to finding Legolas so very awe-inspiring. Yet he’s awash in guilty pleasure as Legolas brushes his pale-gold hair aside, tumbling like silk over his shoulder. His fingers comb through it while the other hand catches strays. Gimli wonders, not for the first time, if he could ever swallow his pride enough to propose they braid each other’s hair. Legolas wears long, thin braids around his temples, and Gimli occasionally twists his beard. Perhaps Legolas, with his long, elegant fingers, would think a dwarf’s paws too stubby and inarticulate for such a duty, but dwarves are amongst the greatest craftsmen in the world. 

With his hair out of the way, Legolas withdraws his cloak from his shoulders, lets it slither down his back and pool at his feet, soundless and light. His tunic is the same green below it, the fabric unusually rough for an elf: made sturdy, for excessive travel. For wear and tear. Gimli wants that to fall more than anything, but it’s the harness of Legolas’ bow and arrows that goes next. Gimli can hear the tiny clink of a released metal clasp in the front, and then the leather straps loosen across his shoulder blades, and Gimli can picture the tight lines that normally cling tight to Legolas’ breast now tumbling open. Legolas lowers his quiver gracefully against the cavern wall, then straightens again, tall and trim and lighter than Gimli might be able to hold. Sometimes Gimli wonders if he’s worthy of his lusts, other times if he could even manage, holding such delicate beauty in his powerful arms. He has to chastise himself for the thought—Legolas is strong, in his own Elven way. 

The belt goes next. Legolas opens it, arms drawing out like presenting an offering, and Gimli wishes he were on the other side, but of course, then he couldn’t sneak this view. It’s wrong, he knows, and he thinks of coughing, thinks of saying he’s here, but his lips don’t seem to work. Why Legolas can’t just sleep in his armour like the rest of them, he has no idea. Elves are mysterious creatures at best, and Legolas starts on his tunic. Soon, the thick material is giving way to the thin silver below. The tunic opens outwards, tugged back by Legolas’ arms as his chest thrusts forward, arching in his pursuit of freedom. Once it’s gone, he folds it to place at his feet, and he stands again in just his undershirt, laced with intricate mail, and his trousers and his boots. 

The boots he bends to pull himself free of. He doesn’t bend like a dwarf or a man would, but arches again, spine dipping in a sensuous curve and legs poised to be stripped. He pulls one boot off, then another, and sets them side-by-side, next to the quiver. That’s it, Gimli is sure: no more excuse to delay a much-needed rest. 

But Legolas goes further. His arms cross over his stomach, reaching to the opposite sides of his hips, curling around his long-sleeved shirt. He brings it slowly up his body, one tantalizing centimeter at a time, and Gimli can’t stop himself from lifting up on one elbow, ogling the sight before him. Legolas’ pale skin is unblemished, smooth yet toned, and each new muscle he reveals is something out of Gimli’s wet dreams. Finally, the shirt pulls over Legolas’ head, and he shakes his hair out afterwards, letting it dance in the shallow breeze. It glitters in the eerie, Elven light as it tumbles back across his shoulder blades, cascading down his natural curves. He has none of the dark blots, leathery patches, or scars that litter Dwarven bodies: something Gimli always thought made the reveal of naked skin more interesting. Now he sees that this is just as pleasing, in its own way: proof of just how _different_ Legolas is, how rare and far from Gimli’s grasp. 

He’s standing in only his slacks. It seems impossible that he could’ve gone this far. Gimli is so careful to be quiet, but any of the others could wake at any minute, peer around the roots and see Legolas near naked and vulnerable. Yet Legolas’ hands work in front of him, and Gimli realizes belatedly, slowly in his disbelief, that Legolas is undoing the strings that hold his trousers around his waist. 

His skilled hands push the hem slowly down his hips when they’re loose, gray fabric over yellow-peach skin, joining the cloak at Legolas’ feet. Shorts of white still hug Legolas’ thighs, dipping low down his rear and clinging to his skin like water, nearly transparent. Legolas’ neck straightens, head lifting, and he whispers on the air, “That is all you’re going to see tonight, my friend.”

He turns his head over his shoulder, a small smile on his lips, and Gimli’s paralyzed with shame and the feeling of being scolded, having been caught red-handed. Of course, Legolas would know that he was watching. He was a fool to think otherwise. 

The implications of that fill him slowly: that Legolas _knew_ and stripped anyway, right at the end of Gimli’s cot. Legolas’ face is coy, like it always is when he’s bested his dwarf companion, and finally, he turns around. 

Gimli stares at his gorgeous body, his taut chest and smooth stomach and long limbs, and a longing claws up in Gimli’s chest that makes him groan. Legolas asks, “Did you like the show?” As though there’s any way Gimli couldn’t have. 

Gimli still doesn’t answer. He means to scoff and tease, but his throat is clogged. 

Legolas, in the silence, begins to sink, slowly lowering himself to the ground. His sinful fingers brace themselves just before Gimli’s boot-covered feet, and his knees land in the moss. On all fours, Legolas stalks forward, crawling like a beast, but an alluring one. There’s a sensuality in every one of Legolas’ movements, and he makes his way up Gimli with shifting shoulders and outstretched hands and spread thighs, straddling Gimli’s body until his face hovers over Gimli’s. His long hair tumbles over his shoulders to frame his face, blanketing out Gimli’s world. Gimli, for a brief moment, wonders only how this took so long to happen. 

Legolas purrs, quiet and sultry, “You’ve given me an appreciation of dwarves, Gimli, son of Glóin. I now realize how strong your stout, substantial bodies are.” Then, while Gimli shivers in a forbidden delight, Legolas dips his head lower, face turning and lips parting next to Gimli’s ear. He breathes into it, “I think I should like to see a thick dwarf cock.”

The spell snaps. Just like that, the power over him gives way, and Gimli bursts to life, arms darting up, fingers latching in Legolas’ luxurious hair. He jerks Legolas down by it with no thought to pain, opens his mouth and slams theirs together, ready to unleash the Dwarven element Legolas has asked for: the passionate, fervent way a dwarf makes love.


End file.
